London Edition
by TLW Tuesday
Summary: An unexpected newspaper is delivered to the tree house and the headline reveals some startling news.
1. London Edition - vol101

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.101_

Lord John Roxton was perched on the rooftop of the world. It wasn't the highest point on the Plateau, but it suited the hunter rather nicely. The rolling canopy stretched lush and green before him – from the edge of his treetop balcony to the distant mountains. By any normal measure, he was in the middle of nowhere; yet he sat comfortably sipping coffee from a china cup while reading the morning paper.

He knew very well the commotion this unexpected newspaper would cause. After all, how had the London Edition of the _International Herald Tribune_ been delivered to the heart of the Amazon Basin on the very day that it had been printed? A fair question – _four years ago_ – but here on the Plateau, that trifle magic would scarcely raise an eyebrow. No, the _commotion_ that Lord Roxton was anticipating regarded the front page news – news that would change every dream of returning to London.

As was usual, he had been the first to rise that morning. There was kindling to split, fences to mend, and if left untended; the relentless encroachment of vines would tear down every structure the Challenger Expedition had erected over the years. The work was demanding, but the rugged hunter had long since made peace with his role. As a nobleman born to privilege, Lord Roxton had spent most of his life with idle hands. It felt good to be of use and if his meager labors allowed Marguerite to take a warm shower… well then, that was another thought altogether.

The discovery of odd new construction interrupted Roxton's chores. Mounted securely to the gatepost of the electric fence – as if this were a typical London address – was a wooden newspaper box.

"If there's a paper in that box, I'll eat my hat," John said aloud, and then he let loose a bemused whistle as he pulled free the daily news. He popped open the crisp, clean pages at the fold and the distinct smell of fresh ink tugged fondly at his memory. Then the headline hit him like a fist to the gut.

Later, as he leafed through the pages on the balcony, he couldn't help but wonder which of his housemates would be the first to share in his discovery. Surely Challenger was awake by now and busy puttering in his lab. Veronica _could_ have slipped by him, but not likely. And Marguerite would certainly still be sleeping. One of them would venture out to the common room soon enough... a rattling in the kitchen ended his suspense.

Moments passed before a voice came from over his shoulder. "Good Heavens, is that what it looks like?"

He was glad that it was Marguerite; he wanted the two of them to be alone when she learned the news. Quickly, she came to his side and joined him on their favorite bench. He held up a finger before she could bombard him with questions.

"Yes, it's today's paper – No, I don't know where it came from – And, I found it at the front gate. But, Marguerite, I need to show you the front page," John got it all out in one breath. Then he folded the paper so that she could read the headline.

The written word had always come easily for her and she absorbed most of the article in a glance. There were two key phrases that truly shook her: _Renowned scientist's estate in foreclosure... _And,_ House of Lords sanctions Avebury heir... _But the boldface headline told a deeper story: _Challenger Expedition Declared Legally Dead_.

John set aside his empty coffee cup and gently touched the back of his hand to her cheek. "This doesn't change anything, Marguerite," he said, but the reassurance seemed to be more for himself than for her.

**END** – _vol.101_

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	2. London Edition - vol102

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.102_

Self-doubt was a foreign feeling to George Challenger, but he was feeling it now. How could he have been so arrogant – so certain that he would return the triumphant hero? And now Jessie was alone and without proper means. The group had assembled around the dining table with the newspaper at its center. The professor was uncharacteristically silent and Marguerite could see the strain on the older man's face.

"George," she reached out to his folded hands, "for all we know this paper is a complete forgery."

"Yes," he replied, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, "but then, we shouldn't be here at all – should we?" His blunt words caused Veronica's shoulders to tense. Her confident exterior was genuine, but lingering fears of abandonment were forever needles at her heart.

The young woman's subtle reaction was not lost on Roxton. "Well, we _are_ here, George," he said, looking straight into Veronica's eyes. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, Marguerite is right; this whole thing is likely just a hoax."

Challenger took a deep breath to collect himself and then, feigning his usual confidence he said, "I suggest, then, we uncover the origin of this troublesome newspaper posthaste."

"Where there's a paper box, there's a deliveryman," the hunter said, as he pushed himself away from the table. "I'll start by looking for tracks near the front gate." Veronica had always favored actions over words and she immediately offered her assistance. And then the two experienced trackers headed for the elevator, effectively ending the discussion.

"The only footprints I see travel straight through the gateway," John said. He had taken a knee and was lightly moving aside loose leaves with a twig.

The other tracker nodded in agreement, "Yes, our prints from yesterday." On delicate feet, she moved to the far side of the gate. "Nothing new out here either," she added.

From the balcony, Marguerite watched the two of them fuss over scuffed dirt and trampled weeds. She could see from their bearing that they hadn't found any new evidence. She had her own suspicions regarding this unexpected delivery and she would put her theory to the test during the night. But first, she needed to talk with John.

She knew the man too well. The thought of losing his family home and his inheritance weighed heavy on his mind. Even if they should never return to England, being The Earl of Avebury was part of _who he was_. He had hidden his concerns from the others well enough, but she had seen through his countenance – and more importantly, she knew _why_ he feared the loss.

During supper that evening the newspaper dominated the conversation. They made a game of it, reading the ads aloud and poking fun at the absurdity of civilized life. But underneath the laughter was an unspoken fear that they would never again be a part of that world – that all of their family and friends thought them deceased.

As the night wore down Marguerite lingered near Roxton. She wanted to be sure that he felt welcome to slip into her room later. As obvious as it may have been to their housemates, the two remained discreet about their sleeping arrangements. But the hunter's thoughts were an ocean away, and to her surprise he excused himself early. He retired to his room offering only a slight nod of goodnight.

Later, as she lay in her own bed, she considered tiptoeing across the hall to join him, but her pride and decorum – well, her _pride_ anyway – kept her alone and worried. Her mind turned back to the newspaper; she would deal with John's insecurities tomorrow. She stood and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, pulling the excess covering and her pillow snug to her chest. The rest of the tree house had gone quiet. She crossed the common room with a stealthy step and slipped out onto the balcony.

She settled back into the large weathered chair and pulled her feet up under her blanket. She had only seen one newspaper on the Plateau before today and if her suspicions were correct, she would see a third by morning. Sleep came in short stints, but she kept her ears on the jungle floor. Light had just begun to touch the morning sky when she heard the hoof beats. The balcony railing held her back as she leapt from her slumber and leaned out over the clearing.

Down at the front gate a dark horse slid deftly to a stop. The rider executed a quick spin and then bolted back into the thick foliage – but not before retrieving a newspaper from a saddlebag and quickly stowing it into the paper box.

Marguerite said only two words, _"Olmec..."_

**END –** _vol.102_

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	3. London Edition - vol103

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.103_

Her second exclamation echoed through the tree house, "...ROXTON!" – and the man's feet hit the thatch wood floor before he was even awake.

By the time John reached the common room Marguerite had already secured a rifle for herself, and then she smoothly tossed a second weapon into the hunter's outstretched hands. Veronica was the next to arrive, and Challenger was racing up the stairs from below. But the two armed adventurers had already released the elevator and were descending to the jungle floor.

"It's Olmec, that bloody trickster," Marguerite said, and she explained what she had witnessed from the balcony. Before the elevator had even reached ground, she threw open the carriage door.

Roxton rushed into the lead, scanning the tropical byways with the sight of his rifle. A good rider would be well out of range by now, he thought. And then his practiced eye caught a distinct equestrian outline in the twisted undergrowth. He raised his aim to where the rider would sit.

"I would consider this _violent means_, Olmec," Roxton shouted out into the jungle. "Start talking or..."

"Just shoot him!" Marguerite ordered in frustration, causing the rider to spur his mount for deeper cover. The skilled hunter led his target perfectly... but he didn't pull the trigger. Caution prevailed, and he lowered his rifle to his hip. Marguerite stepped to the front and sent three rounds of her own into the trees. The errant shots were answered by a haunting laughter on the distant canopy.

She wheeled around with a disapproving look. "Why, John?" she questioned. He pushed his shoulders up towards his ears and started to explain, but the annoyed woman held up a silencing hand and continued, "Have you forgotten that that man – creature – self appointed deity, tried to drown me?"

"Marguerite, would you truly have me shoot that rider?" John used a voice that he reserved just for these confrontations, "I hadn't even gotten a clear look at him."

"I told you that it was Olmec!"

"Yes, you also said that you had been asleep as he arrived, _and_ that it was still _dark out_."

"I never said that it was dark!" She waited a beat and then added, "...I said that it wasn't quite light yet." Her coy demeanor eased the tension and he started walking towards the front gate. She fell in beside him and pressed her point, "I'd know that horse anywhere, John. You won't find any tracks, and then you'll see that I'm right."

She was right. The mystical steed had left no hoofmarks. Roxton retrieved the newspaper from the box and swatted it playfully against her backside. "Now we know that it was Olmec's_ horse_," he said. But he thought it likely that she was correct about the rider as well. The slightest squeeze of his trigger would have ended the trickster, but he had chosen not to take the shot – a decision he hoped he would not later regret.

From their balcony vantage, Challenger and Veronica had been ready to assist their friends in the clearing. They had armed themselves the instant they heard the gunfire below. But with the immediate danger past, the duo moved back inside and racked their weapons. Challenger was impatient and he began to hover near the elevator landing, awaiting the latest delivery.

The empathetic young woman sensed his anxiety. "I doubt that a _trickster_ would give us a _genuine_ newspaper, Professor," she said, hoping to dispel a bit of his concern.

"I read yesterday's paper from cover-to-cover. I find it unlikely that even Olmec's conjurations could have managed such detail," he replied.

"So, you think it's real?"

"Olmec claimed to be a god – yet he needed to steal Marguerite's jewels?" The professor gave a skeptical shake of his head. "No, I think we witnessed the limits of his power when he opened that portal to London."

Veronica finished his thought, "And that explains how he's getting the daily papers onto the Plateau."

"Yes, unfortunately... the news is real," Challenger admitted with a heavy heart. Then his eyes narrowed and he added, "And that begs the question: How do we trick this trickster into using his power to take us back to London?"

Marguerite's voice could be heard well before the elevator door rattled open. "Well, if this so-called _evidence _can find its way off of this bloody plateau, _why can't we?_" The two were pressed tight together and she was trying to wrestle the open newspaper from Roxton's hands.

The hunter kept a firm grip on his side of the pages as they crossed the brief entryway. He was trying to find the answer to her question and he read out loud, _"Brazilian authorities are now considering the matter closed and they have shipped the evidence in absentia to Whitehall."_

The team had left a great deal of wreckage in their wake over the years. Some of it could have easily been misread as _proof_ of their demise. Veronica suggested the lost balloon, and then Challenger pointed to the ambush that had taken most of their party – before they had even ascended the Plateau. But they avoided citing more obvious and concrete evidence, until...

Roxton read it aloud, _"Although the identity has not yet been released, one member of the ill-fated expedition will be receiving a proper burial. The body..." _John's voice faltered and then he finished in a whisper, _"...body is expected to arrive in Southampton by week's end."_

**END –** _vol.103_

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	4. London Edition - vol104

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.104_

"_Ned,_" Veronica said quietly, yet the word was surprisingly loud in the silence.

"We cannot allow ourselves to be drawn into this charlatan's games!" Challenger warned, with a harshness that he hoped would galvanize the group.

Veronica recoiled at his callused tone, "But, _this news is real_ – you said so yourself, Professor."

"Yes, I believe these newspapers are authentic. There are likely human remains in route to England, but to whom do they belong? –Malone? –Summerlee? –or some unlucky thief with Ned's pack?" Challenger paused to let his point sink in. "Olmec is our best hope of discovering the truth."

"He holds all the cards," Roxton said.

"Yes," the professor agreed. "You may well lose your title, John. And with the forfeit of my research grants, my own dear Jessie might be put out onto the street. To stop that from happening, we need to set our death record straight – and this trickster may be our only chance."

"Now that we've started shooting at him," Veronica said, "he may not even return."

"Oh, he'll be back," Marguerite assured. "Didn't you hear him laughing at us?"

"_Us?_" Roxton said in mock surprise. "He wasn't laughing at _me… my_ shot would have hit him." He watched closely for the woman's reaction, but she ignored the bait.

"Well, we have the day then – to prepare a reception for our morning caller," the professor concluded. The team had started work early and the day passed slowly under the weight of uncertainty. Eventually, the tree house settled back into its normal rhythm, and a plan began to take shape.

It was late afternoon by the time Marguerite was able to talk with John alone. She had been considering how she might broach the subject of his impending fall from nobility. The news had clearly affected him. It was presumptuous of her to believe that his true fear was the loss of her affections – that her interest in him had never been more than just his title. But she had done her part to fan that fire, and she was unsure how deep it might burn.

He was constructing a hunting blind just outside of the fence line as she approached. She made a small pretense of offering her assistance, but he dismissed the gesture without comment.

Roxton could read her tentative behavior, and he cut straight to the matter. "If you're worried about _Avebury_, don't be," he said, although he hadn't meant to be ambiguous. It bothered him that this woman – with so many secrets of her own – could see right through him. She knew full well that he didn't give a damn about that title.

"John, do you really think I care about that old house?"

"I don't know, Marguerite. But isn't that the way of it? I never know anything!" He hadn't realized just how frustrated he had been. The words were coming fast, "Maybe it _is_ just the name you want: _Lady _Marguerite Roxton!"

It hurt to be on the receiving end of such bitter words and she felt her walls rising. If she let loose her own venom it could take months to repair. Instead, she took an unfamiliar step onto higher ground, and said, "We're all on edge, John – worried about those unidentified remains. I'll let you get back to your work."

As she walked away he called out her name. She stopped and closed the gate behind herself, looking back at him. "That title had _you_ seduced long before _me_, Lord Roxton," she said in a controlled voice. "I'm just not as practiced at hiding it." And then she crossed the clearing to the elevator.

Roxton was unsettled by her accusation. He had always been indifferent to his station – _hadn't he?_ Or, had he been playing the high-wire-hero for so long that he'd forgotten about the net? He looked up at the sky; he was losing the light. He put his mind back on his work. Olmec was his priority. Completing the hunting blind was only part of the plan. He and Challenger had laid a great deal of groundwork earlier and he liked their chances of capturing this shifty prey.

The hunter began checking his sightline from the newly constructed blind to the front gate – but he wasn't alone. Hidden high in the canopy, the trickster watched.

Olmec questioned whether the man truly intended to shoot him. Surely, he saw the flaw in that plan? Perhaps the hunter would just take him at the knee... he didn't like the sound of that. He would be certain to have the rifleman disarmed as his first measure. The professor had spent hours running wire near the front gate, but that area would be pitifully simple to avoid. He had seen enough, he didn't need to know their entire plan before morning; he wouldn't mind a few surprises.

The trickster slipped from his tree branch and fell twenty feet to the ground, landing deftly in a silent crouch. He moved a safe distance deeper into the jungle and took a small handful of translucent dust from a pouch at his hip. With a flourish of his hand, the fine powder ignited into a shimmering pane of light – and there, stretched out just beyond the threshold, were the gray streets of London.

The planet's rotation favored him. He would have a late night on the town, a comfortable bed in a hotel, breakfast on the Thames, and still have enough time to pick up the morning paper and return to the Plateau before first light. Olmec stepped through the iridescent gateway just before it winked shut.

**END –** _vol.104_

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	5. London Edition - vol105

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.105_

The high canopy was bathed in a silver glow – ghostly rivers of light chasing after the passing moon. The night cries had faded. It was that rare stillness, before the dawn, when even the jungle slept. John listened to the silence. He propped a leg onto the balcony railing and absently laced his boots – one, and then the other. Sunrise was still an hour away, but he wasn't taking any chances; he wanted to be safely hidden in his hunting blind long before Olmec arrived.

On his way to the elevator Roxton crossed through the common area. The professor sat in the darkened room finishing his tea and he called after the passing man, "I'm right behind you, John."

"Once I have the drop on him, George, you be ready. I don't expect Olmec to surrender without a fight."

"That electric field is set to stop a tyrannosaur. _I certainly hope_ he gives us a fight!" Challenger replied. His friend's bravado brought a smile to John's face and then he released the elevator, leaving the scientist to his final preparations.

The impending ambush had raised the stakes, and Olmec was happy to escalate his game. Today, the trickster would deliver _more_ than just a newspaper. But he had no intention of entering this trap himself. He had just the right man for the job – the cloaked figure stood at his side, eager to do his bidding.

The hapless victim knew that he was being used; but the curse of immortality had torn open every mortal scar, and driven the man beyond his ability to reason.

Olmec took delight in the pathetic predictability of humans. He knew that the adventurers would not kill this minion; instead, they would come straight for the trickster himself – to the temple. He retreated into the jungle and left his deliveryman to do his work.

Roxton stepped out into the brisk night air, very confident of what the next few hours would bring. He darted across the clearing and ducked under the fence line. Then he slipped through the thick foliage to his hunting blind, adjusted a few branches, and disappeared into the camouflage.

If the intruder had not been forewarned, he would have never spotted the blind. He began to circle around behind the hunter's position, but the tree house pulleys started their telltale whine, and he held his ground to wait on the descending elevator. As anticipated, the professor stepped from the lift alone and then started towards the south edge of the clearing. Without hesitation, the intruder cut through the shadows to intercept.

Challenger moved in behind his makeshift cover and chambered a round – although he didn't expect to use the rifle. All he would need was a clear sightline to the front gate and the trigger-wire to his electric field generator. "Let's see what happens when the supernatural meets science," the professor said.

"I'm betting on the supernatural," a voice whispered from the dark.

Utter confusion paralyzed Challenger as the man rose from the shadows and drove a fist up under his chin. The force of it lifted him off of his feet. His legs buckled and the attacker quietly guided his body to the ground.

The trickster's laughter burned within the minion – begging for release. But there was still the arrogant lord to deal with... and he owed that man more than one beating. He leaned back into the darkness and tapped into the fury, a welcome symptom of his curse.

Roxton had been on alert for an approaching horse. He had not expected to be ripped from his concealment from behind. The power of it was astonishing. He flew backwards and landed hard on the packed earth. The startled hunter struggled to draw a breath, but the air wouldn't come. His opponent loomed over him and kicked the rifle from his hands.

The cloaked figure took a full stride and swung a boot at the fallen man's head, but Roxton rolled to the side and took the impact with his shoulder. He was disoriented, unable to find his balance. He tried to stand but his attacker landed a brutal right hand to his cheekbone. The hunter stumbled sideways and hit the ground again. The fight was lost. He clung to the fringes of consciousness as his assailant closed in and began landing punches at will.

The beaten man reeled in semiconscious delusion – trying to make sense of what he was seeing... _his attacker was not Olmec._

"Expecting someone else?" the intruder asked. And then he pulled the newspaper from his cloak and tossed it to the ground. The confusion on the mighty lord's face was palpable, and the minion's immortal laughter skipped across the jungle.

In the tree house above, Veronica slept the restless sleep of dreams. The taunting laughter split the veil between reality and her slumber. Harsh words followed, _"Keep her away from me."_ Veronica kicked at her blankets, twisting away from the voice in her dream. But it came again, louder, _"I'll take her..."_

The immortal intruder could sense the young woman beginning to wake. If he didn't leave immediately, he might do something that he could never undo. _Eternity was a long time to spend alone._ He pushed a boot into the hunter's ribs, to ensure that the dazed man was listening. "Keep her away from me, Roxton," he warned, "or I'll take her!"

He started for the tree line, but he stopped and looked up into the early morning light. He needed to know if she would truly come to him. Veronica bolted upright in her bed, the voice still fresh from her dream. She threw her covers to the floor and rushed across the tree house to the balcony. She looked out over the railing to the clearing below.

The trickster's minion stood at the edge of the forest, gazing up at her. The immortal curse had changed the man. His appearance had been hardened – but his eyes were filled with remorse. Veronica could still see a part of the innocent reporter that she had once known. She called out to him, but Ned Malone pulled his cloak across his face and vanished into the jungle.

**END –** _vol.105_

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	6. London Edition - vol106

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.106_

_**Only six short months ago...**_

Ned Malone was lying – broken – at the bottom of a sharp ravine, his leg twisted at an obscene angle. He had been pinned down for days, his ammunition low and his canteen dry. He was very near death when the trickster god descended into his delirium, like an angel of mercy.

Even in his weakened state Ned recognized the danger he was dealing with. He had witnessed this brand of treachery once before. But still, the dying man chose to accept the trickster's aid – and once back at his temple, there was nothing that could stop the inevitable.

Francois Locke had always been uncomfortable looking directly into the lifeless eyes of his drowning victims. Perhaps it reminded him of his own failed struggle against Olmec, all those centuries ago, in this very same sacrificial pool.

Now it was Malone's turn to fight the trickster's grip, but the injured reporter could muster only a few panicked spasms before his lungs surrendered to the water. He woke moments later, gasping for air, believing for an instant that he had survived – but knowing the truth of it, knowing that death had stripped him of his mortality.

In spite of his own good judgment, Ned felt gratitude towards Locke – he had been given a second chance. The sum of his mortal days had amounted to little more than a footnote in some obscure record of a failed jungle expedition. To have it all end as a broken heap at the bottom of a rocky ravine seemed a fitting epitaph to a wasted life. But Olmec had mended his body and unlocked his passions – and the only cost to Malone had been... _immortality._

Over time, he began to change. He was as physically fit as he had ever been, but completely free of the self doubt that had once held him captive. Trips to Tibet honed his fighting skills, training that Locke assured him he would need to defend his immortal lifestyle. Trading in London lined his pockets – the coin well spent on pampered nights in Paris. But always, they returned to the Plateau.

During late evenings in their plush jungle camp, Locke would pour countless bottles of wine while Ned reminisced about his years in the tree house. The more time Malone spent with the eloquent man, the more he began to resent the pawn that he had become in mortal life. As the months passed, he found himself participating in acts of greed and cruelty that he would have once considered unforgivable.

When Olmec offered Ned a chance to return to the tree house, he thought it poetic that he should be cast as a paperboy. It wasn't until the trickster god was giving Malone his final instructions that he suspected he was being used. After all, he had seen Francois Locke cast his charms on so many others. But an unyielding thirst for revenge had seized the young man and he simply lacked the will to resist.

As Ned slipped up on Challenger in the clearing, the look of betrayal on the self righteous professor's face was ironic. If anyone had been betrayed, it was the idyllic reporter who had joined the expedition four years ago. _It was his turn now!_ And then he turned his attentions to Roxton; he had always been indulgent of the _mighty lord's_ false modesty. But Locke had awakened a new perspective in his young protégé – and it felt very good to beat the smug hunter into submission.

Nothing short of a violent death could break the hold of the trickster's curse. But hearing Veronica call out his name had triggered something deep inside of Malone. The genuine concern and kindness in her voice had stirred feelings that Ned thought buried with his mortality. And now – as he ran headlong through the bramble, the rough branches lashing at his exposed skin – he was beginning to question what Olmec had set into motion. _Was he just a pawn again? –in a different game?_

Malone had been the one to discover the news articles concerning the Challenger Expedition's demise – first in Rio de Janeiro and then in London. When Locke had decided to bring the _International Herald Tribune_ back to the Plateau, Ned had thought it was just one of the man's sadistic games. But now he suspected there was more to it. The trickster was manipulating events to his own ends.

Ned slowed his pace. He had put enough distance between himself and the tree house. A small brook cut through his path and he knelt to refresh himself in the cool water. His knuckles were stained crimson – brutal fists that he knew Roxton would never forget. As he washed the blood from his hands he felt Olmec calling him home. Even without his horse he would reach his master by nightfall.

The rising heat had drawn up the morning dew and a heavy mist clung to the temple ruins. The trickster god stood at his drowning pool waiting for his minion to return. It had taken months to groom the reporter for his role in this game. The simple man couldn't comprehend what he had revealed during those casual conversations about the tree house – the questions had been subtle. But slowly, Olmec had discerned the _source of the storm_.

**END –** _vol.106_

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	7. London Edition - vol107

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.107_

Roxton blinked, and then blinked again. From his position – flat on his back – the high treetops seemed to frame the morning clouds. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and fought back the haze._ It was a hell of a thing to be disarmed so easily_. Even with the danger past the hunter felt an urgency to get his rifle back into his hands. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up to one knee. Once his legs felt able, he stood and retrieved his rifle.

Veronica emerged from the open elevator and rushed across the clearing. At the fence line she threw aside the gate, and then continued on passed Roxton and into the trees. "That was Ned!" her tone held a bewilderment that John shared – although his own feelings leaned a little closer to _anger_.

He reached a hand up to his cheek and winced at his own touch. Veronica stepped closer and cringed; his eye was shot full of blood and the skin was going purple. "Did he... Ned do this?" she asked, visibly distraught by the possibility. The young woman clearly knew the answer, yet a trace of naive hope remained in her expression. John looked away, silently avoiding her eyes; he didn't have the heart to reply.

Suddenly, his attention shifted. "Challenger!" he called out, and then he hurried into the clearing with Veronica close behind. The professor was still unconscious, his body tangled like a marionette with severed strings. John tucked the injured man's own hat under his neck for support and then pulled his legs straight.

Veronica looked forlorn. "What is going on? Why would Ned…" her words mirrored Roxton's own thoughts.

"It wasn't him… well, not the Ned we knew. That was Olmec's laughter I heard, but I _saw_ it come right from Malone's twisted grin." John was knelling beside the professor trying to judge the man's condition, but he was having difficulty focusing; his own left eye had swollen completely shut.

"The trickster got to Ned," she said, looking back out into the jungle. And then her voice turned distant, "I still don't understand why he left us."

Roxton felt bad for the girl, but he was busy examining the bruising around his patient's jaw. The bone seemed intact but the man's tongue had been cut near through and his beard was caked with blood. At length, he replied, "It was a poor decision, I know – but it was his to make."

"Well now we have a chance to get him back and I'm going after him," she said, suddenly determined, and she started towards the tree house.

"Veronica, wait! Help me get Challenger up to the house – and then we'll both go."

She looked back at the injured hunter tending to their fallen friend and the gravity of the situation set in. The two worked together to get the professor onto the elevator. The comatose man was difficult to carry and it became painfully clear that Roxton was in no condition to travel. She made the decision to go after Malone on her own, and she intended to avoid any argument to the contrary.

They used the main room as a nursing station. Once they had the professor settled, Veronica hurried back into the elevator and slid shut the carriage door. "You'll only slow me down, John," she called out. "I'll have Ned back home soon." And then she released the lift.

Roxton immediately bolted after the woman, but the unexpected effort set the room into a spin. He dropped down to a knee and rested his forehead against his palm. He had no idea how severe his concussion might be, but he knew that Veronica would have to go it alone. She had been born to the jungle and wouldn't take foolish risks. It was Malone that worried him; the man wasn't in his right mind.

Once John had regained some strength, he dealt with Challenger's injuries and then his own. He had promised Marguerite that he would wake her before he set out for his hunting blind. But she had been exhausted – having spent most of the previous night restlessly awaiting Olmec on the balcony – and John had left her sleeping. She would be awake very soon, and he began to prepare himself for her reaction to his condition – to the outright failure of their ambush.

He had gauged her response fairly well: her anger at Malone, concern for Challenger and her thinly veiled sarcasm that he had been beat-up by the paperboy. But he had never expected that she would insist on going after Veronica herself.

Marguerite had witnessed Olmec's absolute dominance over his minions, and the _manic obsession_ that drove them. But if she stated that too plainly, Roxton would make it difficult for her to leave. "Veronica doesn't realize what she's dealing with, John," she said in a level tone, "I need to go after her now."

"She's on the chase, Marguerite; you'll never catch her."

"Oh, I've seen you people _chase_ someone through the jungle. You stop and inspect every bent weed and broken twig. She'll likely even climb a tree and look around for a bit... believe me, I'll catch her," she said, with a calculated note of levity.

"And what will you do once you find her – force her home at gunpoint?"

"You just aren't very good at this, John. I'll simply tell her that the weasel-eyed reporter is back here at the tree house."

"And when she gets here and discovers that you've lied?" he asked, but she could see that he was warming to her plan.

"Really, Lord Roxton, must I do everything," she said, and she rolled her emerald eyes in a manner that few could match. "That's when _you_ step in and save me." Then she pressed a delicate kiss to his injured cheek.

The decision had been made, although John couldn't say when that had happened. She began to collect her travel gear and he followed after her. He made another attempt at reason, citing his concerns and laying down ultimatums but she effortlessly sidestepped each issue, until finally she had exhausted his resistance.

As she entered the elevator he only shook his head and said, "You know, _Olmec_ was the lucky one... that day he failed to bring you into his fold."

**END –** _vol.107_

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_Use the dropdown menu for vol.108_


	8. London Edition - vol108

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.108_

"What choice do I have?" John asked. He had equipped his pack and rifle and then returned to Challenger's bedside. "I've got to get out in front of this thing, George – or people might die," he reasoned with the comatose man.

In less than three days the trickster had scattered the adventurers across the Plateau. Veronica was chasing after Malone, Marguerite was chasing after Veronica, and now the ailing hunter would have to go after all three of them. This was Olmec's game, and he had been one step ahead of them from the very beginning.

Roxton's frenzied imagination had taken a dark turn. Marguerite had assured him that she would travel no more than two hours from the tree house. If she hadn't located Veronica in that time, she would start back. Almost eight hours had passed and there was still no sign of either woman. He should have shot Olmec when he'd had the chance.

After she left this morning, John had reclined in the seat next to his unconscious friend. It had been his intention to be there should the man need the slightest bit of aid. But he had been overcome by his own injuries and fallen asleep. The rest had done him good. His head was clear and the swelling around his eye had diminished, but an unshakable feeling of dread now twisted at his gut.

A light evening breeze had strewn pages of the forgotten newspaper across the clearing. As Roxton passed by the litter, he felt foolish. He had been worried about his _meaningless title_, and now the lives of his friends were at risk. Only a few hours of daylight remained as the hunter locked down the electric fence – but he had no intentions of stopping until his family was safe.

Malone was very aware that Veronica was following him. The trickster's unrelenting whisper demanded that he lead the young woman to the temple. By simply obeying the call he would be rewarded with an eternity of youthful passion. But he had felt the dark shackles of immortality, and to imagine Veronica's bright spirit fettered was more than he could bear. He turned around and began to back-track his path.

Only a trace of twilight remained as Veronica wove the last few oversized leaves into her simple lean-to. She was only an hour's travel from the temple, but to approach the ancient structure in the dark would be reckless. Malone's trail had been difficult to follow and he had outpaced her considerably through the dense jungle. Clearly, he was not the same man that she had known.

"I know you're there, Ned," she called out. She had heard him moving in the darkness.

A moment passed and then Malone stepped into the small clearing. He was carrying an armload of dry branches. "You'll need a fire to keep the insects away," he said.

She wanted to run to him and wrap her arms around him. She wanted to yell at him for what he had done to Challenger and Roxton. She wanted to hurt him – the way he had hurt her when he left without saying goodbye. But instead, she motioned to a ring of rocks at the center of her camp and said, "Put the wood there."

They built the fire together and neither of them spoke. As the flames grew, the warm orange glow pushed back the night – a private sanctuary in the darkening jungle. There was so much left unsaid between them, but the time to say it had long since passed. They held eyes for a time and a silent tear traced the firelight down her cheek.

"What happened to you, Ned?" she asked – her voice was thick with loss and regret.

Ned answered by gently brushing his lips against the tear at the corner of her mouth. The unexpected gesture stole her breath. For all of her jungle wisdom and independence, a part of Veronica remained very young. She turned her own lips into the kiss. Malone's embrace was hungry and she was eager to respond. They moved as one to the lean-to, their bodies pressed tightly together. She felt the heat of his skin on hers – acutely aware of the fevered pulse beating just below the surface. And slowly, the fire burned down to embers.

Later, Ned added wood to the cinders and re-stoked the flame. They lay together in the flickering light and talked for hours. He told her about his accident, and how Locke had saved him – and about his trips off the Plateau. "When I saw the headline in London I was shocked. I wondered if it were true – if something had happened to the expedition. But after awhile I pieced it together." He paused to consider how much detail was necessary.

Her back was pressed against his chest. She raised her head and looked back over her shoulder at him, expectantly.

He continued, "The short of it is: Locke misled authorities using one of my journals and an unfortunate traveler near Manaus – the _evidence_ en route to England is presumed to be _me_. But I can easily fix this, Veronica. The next time I'm in London, I'll make a public statement."

"Why haven't you done that already?"

"It's more complicated than that," he said. "Look at me, Veronica."

The sky was turning gray and she was feeling drowsy. She rolled to face him and began to toy with a button on his open shirt. "Complicated how?"

"I promise to explain it all in the morning," he said, and he kissed her – knowing that it was the last time he would ever touch his lips to hers. He pulled his head back and looked into her trusting eyes, and then he appeared to notice her Trion pendant for the first time. "That's new," he said, with just the right hint of casual interest.

Veronica brought her hand to her necklace. "It's a gift from my _mother_," she said excitedly. So many things had happened since he left the tree house – so much she wanted to share with him.

"May I?" he asked. The trickster's minion extended an open palm and waited. She reached behind her neck and unfastened the clasp, and then she handed him the Eye of Heaven – _of her own free will_.

**END –** _vol.108_

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_Use the dropdown menu for vol.109_


	9. London Edition - vol109

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's: THE LOST WORLD**

**London Edition** – _vol.109_

The telltale flicker of a campfire lit the distant treetops. It was only a glimmer, but to Marguerite, it cut like a beacon through the darkness. Somebody else was nearby – _she was not lost and alone in the jungle night_. At last, she could rest, and she leaned back into the wide saddled branches of her own private kapok tree.

She had been certain that she would remember the route to Olmec's temple. By staying that course, she had expected to intercept Veronica. But she had lost her bearings while using one of Roxton's bloody shortcuts, and she spent most of the afternoon looking for her original trail. Eventually, the encroaching darkness had forced her to seek the safety of a climbable tree and wait out the night. At the first hint of morning light she headed straight for the valley, desperately hoping that the distant flame would turn out to be her housemate's camp.

Ned left Veronica's side just as she began to drift in and out of sleep. She felt the chill on her back as he pulled away – she thought he was up adding wood to the fire. He whispered a few words, but in her slumber they were meaningless – and then the camp was still. After a time, she pushed herself up onto her arm and hip, and she realized that Ned had gone.

When Marguerite arrived, an hour later, Veronica hadn't moved. The young woman had passed from confusion to hurt and from betrayal to anger, and now she just felt foolish and numb. The duo sat sheltered under the lean-to. It was one of those rare moments when Marguerite felt protective, and she listened while her friend explained what had happened.

"He said not to follow him or Olmec would kill us," Veronica spoke to the ground.

"I can't pretend to understand what this all means – that trickster with your mother's necklace – but maybe Ned _really is_ trying to protect you."

"Like he protected Roxton and Challenger?" she snapped back, and she suddenly stood. "I'm going to finish this. I'm going to get my pendant!"

Marguerite did her best to steer the determined woman back to the tree house. But Veronica wasn't in the mood for words and she started into the morning jungle. Marguerite checked her ammunition, pulled the brim of her fedora low, and headed out after her.

Roxton kept a double-time pace, his rifle held forward, keeping time with his steady gait. The heavy weapon burned at his shoulders and his legs had ached for hours. He had chosen wide trails. The distance was greater, but he had made good ground during the night. He hadn't slowed since leaving the Zanga village yesterday evening. The detour had cost him time, but getting Challenger proper care was necessary, and Assai had been eager to help. The temple peaked above the tree line and Roxton kicked up his step. Today he was going in bullets first.

This would be Olmec's greatest victory since he had danced in the blood of the Chaco people. Eternity had a way of stealing the meaning from the moment – _but today mattered_. The ladies would be here very soon, and Locke had to admit: he had a soft spot for Marguerite.

And then she was there. "I _will_ shoot you, Locke," she said. The two women stood at the temple steps with a clear line of sight on the trickster.

Locke turned slowly to face them. "I am your humble prisoner, Marguerite," he said, and he touched his hand to his heart. "I always have been."

Veronica stepped up to the ground level of the temple. "Where is Malone? Where's my necklace?"

Locke held up a finger, as if he were making his first point. "I imagine you feel a tad betrayed – believe me, I fully understand. The lad has proven to be quite a disappointment to me as well."

"WHERE IS HE?"

Her intensity startled him. "I'm afraid he's left the Plateau – gone to London for the paper."

"Where is the Trion?"

"Again, I apologize. That shifty reporter has taken your jewelry with him." Olmec truly loved the final moves of the game.

"Get them _both_ back here, now," she demanded. She pulled a dagger from her boot and started up the second set of stairs.

"I will summon your boy home immediately… but I need to be down there." He pointed to the clear earth at the base of the temple.

Veronica stepped in behind the man and escorted him to the ground level. Locke maneuvered as closely as he could to Marguerite's rifle – it was the one thing he feared. He knew that she wouldn't fire with Veronica directly behind him. He would disarm his attackers with uncanny speed the instant he was within range. Then he saw Marguerite's eyes shift to his right, and he knew that he'd overlooked something.

The hunter had approached from the trickster's blindside. "That spot will do nicely," John said. "Now do your hocus-pocus." He stood offhand, poised to fire.

"Ah, Lord Roxton – I don't recall sending you an invitation," Locke played nonchalant, but he was genuinely surprised by the man's arrival. He hadn't counted on a third weapon and he had no intentions of being killed. "This is probably a good time to warn you: If I, _Francois Locke_, should die – _Olmec_ will simply possess another of his minions – your own Ned Malone, to be perfectly clear."

"No more games!" Veronica yelled. She wanted the Eye of Heaven back. Ned was now a secondary consideration.

Locke held his hands up in mock surrender and continued in his cavalier tone, "One gateway to London coming up!" He retrieved a bit of dust from his pouch and tossed it skyward, the powder drifted in the light for a moment and then collapsed into the distance.

Roxton was unaware that the passage had even opened. From his perspective, the two dimensional gate was nothing more than a razor thin shimmer. It was the immediate change in Marguerite's bearing that alerted him – suddenly she was rushing forward. He knew her face better than his own, every sensual smile and wicked expression, but her look now was completely foreign to him.

She called out, but her words were cut short as she leapt through the magic portal.

**END –** _vol.109_

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_London Edition – Epilogue will post soon. See profile for details._


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